Jesus Christ All-Fucking-Mighty.
How could one single hand do so much damage? What the hell does he have hidden under the skin – metal? Has he had an implant inserted when my back was turned? – he could very well have done, I spend enough time in this pigging corner that he could have nipped down to the hospital when I wasn’t looking and said ‘stick a bit of metal sheet in there will you? I’ve got some body work that needs doing.’ And, of course, him having a private medical policy they would have done it in double quick time. Bloody privatization! It’ll be the downfall of honest working people like me!
It’s me that needs a transplant, not him. An emergency arse transplant is on the books - wonder if I can get that on the National Health Service? Will they let me choose which one I want? God, what if all of them are spotty, or worse, hairy. I am NOT putting hot wax on my bum; it suffers enough as it is. And cellulite? No way! I’m not having just any old bum stuck on; I want a top of the range one. That’s it; I’m going private, sod workers equality.
Look, I can’t help it if I’m vain about my backside, OK? Just the right size, a small smattering of light hairs, a few freckles across the top, it’s cute, no two ways about it, it’s dead cute. Alex says it’s biteable, well, I don’t know about biting it, but he does bloody chew it out when the mood’s on him. Like now! He’s too sensitive that man; I’m going to have to have a serious word with him one of these days.
All I said was ‘No’. I mean, come on, that’s hardly a crime is it? One little word and he goes up the wall. Okay, Okay, if you’re going to be picky, I go to the wall, once a-bloody-gain. Frigging wall’s started to sag in this corner because I spend so much time leaning on it. I think we’re going to have to get the conveyance people in, could be a bit of rising damp as well, oh no, that might be from where I … um, ... spilt a cup of coffee.
So how, I ask myself, am I standing here with a bum that feels at least 3 sizes bigger than it did 20 minutes ago, all because of one measly two-letter word? I always thought it was the four-letter words that got you in trouble, but no, believe you me; the two-letter ones are pure evil. Of course, I tried to tell him the word ‘no’ is used by millions of people 24 hours a day and none of them got seven bells spanked out of them. He says that if everybody used it in the same sentence that I did then he was sure they would.
I categorically deny that I said, ‘No, you can stick your cup of coffee’, well ... I categorically deny that I said it out loud. I swear I didn’t say it out loud. Logic tells me though, - yes, I do have logic, it’s just my own brand – that if I didn’t say it out loud, and I’m not admitting anything yet, you understand - why did he slip his Bossy-Boots on so quickly and start with the ‘I beg your pardon’ lark. Being rather nippy on the old two-wheels I tried a spot of back-pedalling – yes, all right, I admit that I might have uttered something along those lines; I was in a snit, OK? – but he wasn’t having it; claims to have perfect memory, pretty difficult not to really when it was said only 30 seconds beforehand, even I can’t deny that, and I’d give it a go if I thought it would get me out of a spanking by RoboHand.
So of course, and I know you’re behind me 100% on this, being that I couldn’t categorically deny anything anymore; I did the next best thing. Lobbed the coffee and ran for it. I missed him by the way and he says it’s a good job that I’m such an awful shot as it’s the only reason I’m still in possession of any sort of bum at all. I think it would have been better had I scored a direct hit, it would have given me time to nip out the back door while he picked himself up.
Yes, I know, stupid, very stupid of me. But I reckoned I was in with a chance you see. I’m standing by the door and he’s over by the window, I should have been able to escape easy enough and disappear long enough for him to calm down, a week or so by my reckoning; only how the hell did I only get 5 yards towards freedom before he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and said “Come here, you little sod!”
I tried everything. “It wasn’t me” – you can’t imagine how far his eyebrows shot up with that one. “It was an accident” – apparently you can’t accidentally throw a cup of coffee 12 feet. I settled on insisting it was a muscle spasm that made me do it, but he ignored that and said he was going to show me a different type of muscle spasm altogether. Next thing I know it’s trousers down – and I’d like to know how he does that so bloody well when I’ve got a death grip on them – and we’re off and running. Well, he’s off and walloping and I’m off, howling and kicking.
Did you know that the Gluteus Maximus is the largest muscle in the whole body? Well, my Maximus was spasming nineteen to the dozen if you get my drift and there was a fair few dozen in that session, so that works out to ... erm ... oh, let’s just say lots and call it quits.
Shit, Shit, SHIT, he’s coming back. Quick, go away, Go Away, this bit is private and I’m not letting you in on all my secrets!
Eyes front, soppy woeful expression, saggy shoulders, no, that’s too much, he’ll think I’m totally defeated, a cute little tremble every now and again, squeeze a few more tears out so they hang delicately on gorgeous lashes, and it’s cuddle time. He falls for it every time bless him!
Hang on, why has he got a bucket of soapy water and a sponge in his hand?
What! What does he mean I can’t have a cuddle until I’ve cleaned the wall?
That’s not faaaiiiiiir!
Ow. . . OW! . . . OW!